


A parting gesture

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Edgeplay, M/M, Omnics, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robot Sex, Teasing, Undercover Missions, Wall Sex, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: *Maximilien/Zenyatta* an undercover mission comes to an abrupt end -but before leaving, an offer is made.





	A parting gesture

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing something else but the porn wanted to come, so i had to allow it u_u

**A parting gesture**

 

“I thought we could… talk,” Maximilien murmurs.

His voice is silky as he circles around him, slow even steps. He pauses only once, while he’s right behind him, but Zenyatta does not turn around, though he is tense, servos twitching with need to keep the other omnic in his sight –he will not give him that satisfaction.

“There is much we could talk about, yes,” Zenyatta acquiesces, and keeps his tone even. “First and foremost, about your lack of respect.”

This startles a laugh out of Maximilien, a chiding, amused sound. “I admit it was rather uncouth of me to wait for you in your own bedroom,” he makes a small, swiping motion with his arm. “But I thought it would be a safer option than approaching you in public.”

“Safer… for you?” Zenyatta hums deep in his synth, and glances at the orbs placed on the bed. “Or for me?”

“Safer for our respective image. I have acquired proof of your… battle skills. For a monk, you sure know how to use your body.” The tone is almost mocking, but not quite –what Zenyatta detects is appreciation, hidden behind a smirk. “I would not mind observing you in other circumstances.”

There is a flicker of interest in Zenyatta’s mind, a thought process he ends quickly, but he can’t help tilting his head a little to the side, listening. “Oh? Are these… circumstances why you are here?”

He means it in a teasing way, not a proposition, and yet… almost startled, Maximilien circles back until he’s once again standing in front of him, optical receptors recalibrating, zooming on Zenyatta’s faceplate. He blinks. “Hmm. Perhaps, yes. I had other things in mind, but that seems to be a much better use of my evening.”

“Presumptuous of you to think I would indulge you.”

“Well, I might be, yes, but in my position, you would know that I only do what is best for me. A night spent mapping out your body would… definitely be a major boon.”

Zenyatta feels a lick of heat –Maximilien always sounds distant, uninterested when dealing with people, and this sudden switch, the proactive attitude… it is like seeing a different side of him.

“But would it be a boon for me?” he says instead, and Maximilien chuckles, this time in appreciation.

“I would make it worth your while, yes.”

“Do you always proposition enemies of your organization?”

“Only when they are made of polished metal,” Maximilien replies bluntly. “Only when they’ve spent months around me, making themselves palatable, useful and… interesting.”

He stands there, dressed in a beautiful, expensive suit, chrome polished to the point it almost shines, the black parts glossy, his eyes and forehead array a bright, sharp red in contrast with the rest, and Zenyatta knows that he thinks he has the upper hand, that his presence in Zenyatta’s bedroom means he’s found out who he belongs to, that he thinks there is leverage to be used against him, even while admitting he knows of Zenyatta’s prowess in battle situations.

And yet.

And yet, rather than threaten him, expose him to his associates, unveiling the careful mask Zenyatta has placed upon himself while undercover in Maximilien’s casino, he is here for less nefarious, more personal reasons.

The Zenyatta who’s carefully made his way into Maximilien’s group of associates in the past month has appealed to him, and the Zenyatta who was revealed to him as an Overwatch agent remains just as appealing, it seems.

“You make… a compelling argument,” he says, and watches as Maximilien preens, optical receptor LEDs darkening, “yet I might need some more… convincing.” He waits a beat, then “it would be rather unpleasant, were I to wake in the morning only to find myself prey of Talon, because you decided I’d be of more use captive.”

Maximilien moves closer, a mere step, caresses the curve of Zenyatta’s mouth piece, where golden meets the grey of his faceplate. “You would be a sight to behold, as a captive. Yet. Is my word not good enough?”

“I would not know –you are the one saying everyone has a price. Is this yours?” Zenyatta leans into the touch, tilts his body a little, teasing, inviting, then moves away, hands at his sides, index and thumb touching, in wait. “I did, in fact, spy on you for a long while.”

“You did –but that only speaks about the lack of attention of my bodyguards, of the people I pay to make sure something like this does not happen. I do not truly care, nor do I fear, Overwatch. My allies –my _associates_ – do not see you yet as a danger. And I have been accosted by members of your organization before, and managed to strike a deal. I will do so again, if they become a true threat. I do value my comfort higher than most, as you might have noticed.”

“I have.” Zenyatta does not hide the amusement from his tone, but the tilt of Maximilien’s head, the way light hits his polished metal, makes him look almost _hungry_.

“I want you,” he says, and the bluntness sends a jolt of heat down Zenyatta’s back, surprised by the words as much as the heated tone they were spoken with. “That you managed to fool me for two months does not detract from your appeal –it makes it stronger. I will not harm you, or call anyone on you…” a beat “though I would suggest you to leave in the morning, so to avoid the arrival of some of my associates that might not be as pleasant as I am.”

Zenyatta watches him, the teal of his own forehead array glowing softly in the low lights of the bedroom, and then opens himself fully, senses spreading as he pokes at Maximilien. He finds honesty there, tangy and uncomfortable in its own presence, and then there is–

He retreats, processes heating quickly at the feeling of Maximilien’s lust, so thick around him it is almost heady.

There is little to lose –he will have to leave either way, now that he has been discovered, and what Maximilien is offering is… would be… mutually beneficial. Zenyatta is all too aware of his own growing interest, appealed by Maximilien’s form, by his low, careful voice and his attitude. Never to forget who he works for, but this…

It would be a night balanced between truth and lie.

“I will have to trust you to make it worth my while, I suppose,” he murmurs, and even as he says it, his processes tingle with a mix of anticipation and desire.

He has seen the way Maximilien acts with others during the past months, he has seen him give orders, be distant yet strict –he wonders how it will be, in private, and knows he won’t wonder much longer.

Maximilien wastes no time.

He slides closer, forehead array burning brightly for a moment, optical receptors refocusing, zooming, and one of his hands reaches out to take Zenyatta’s wrist in his grip, delicate yet steely, and brings Zenyatta’s hand to his face plate, leaning into it. A flicker of omnic energy sparkles from his mouth seam and tingles across Zenyatta’s palm.

“I would never attempt to gain something without paying the right price,” Maximilien is smooth, even as he tugs Zenyatta closer, and he allows it, curious to see what he will do. “And I’ve always said your worth has high value, Zenyatta.”

He purrs his name with confidence, the first time he’s said it out loud –the first time they truly addressed Zenyatta’s real identity. His cover name slips off Zenyatta’s back like used clothes, and something ‘right’ settles within his chassis, his core heating up.

“Your words are sweet like honey,” he answers, and the tilt of Maximilien’s faceplate makes him look like he’s smirking.

“Honey has nothing on you, when your words captivate me, and your figure, hidden under these clothes, teases me, makes me wish to undress you and reveal what hides beneath,” Maximilien’s hand slides down to Zenyatta’s lower back, tugs him closer and spins them around, a mock-parody of dancing, and Zenyatta finds himself pressed into the wall. “With so many vying for your attention, I was the one who captured you…”

“… in more ways than one,” Zenyatta’s chuckle is low and amused, and for a moment Maximilien joins in, their faces close, their bodies pressed into one another, then–

One hand sneaks down Zenyatta’s front, one thumb sliding across every button of his expensive suit, loosening it with practiced ease, revealing the white shirt underneath, and Maximilien nudges Zenyatta’s hand by his wrist, pressing it into the wall behind him.

“Control belongs to those who know how to own it,” Maximilien leans closer, and Zenyatta twitches when another wave of omnic energy caresses the sensors on his neck.

The pressure of Maximilien’s body against his own feels good, a prelude to what will happen soon, but Zenyatta is patient, and allows Maximilien to explore.

“Control is addictive,” he answers, synth humming when Maximilien kisses his neck again, directly on one of his sensors. “One might slip while holding on it.”

He feels Maximilien tug at his outer vest, freeing his wrist so Zenyatta can slide it off, watching as it falls on the floor at their feet. One less layer of deception, soon followed by Zenyatta’s white shirt, Maximilien’s deft fingers undoing every button and pushing it to the side, revealing Zenyatta’s chest, and his uncovered midsection.

“I would never have guessed,” Maximilien purrs, fingers sliding around visible pistons, pads teasing the base of red wires, and Zenyatta stifles a tiny sound, “under those clothes, to find so much.”

“It would not be easy to cover the lack of outer panels,” Zenyatta admits.

He feels a hand caress a path down to his hips, then travel to his back and slide up and down, touching every curve, every piston and delicate machinery and every joint of his spine, and–

Maximilien’s fingers tugging at the cable tucked neatly in his lower back scatters his thoughts and he gasps, the jolt of pleasure making his processes stutter.

It is unexpected and sharp, metallic fingers causing friction and little sparks of electricity to caress the edge of his chassis, licking at his sensors, and he makes a soft, surprised moan at the touch.

His thoughts falter –a fraction of a second– and his head jerks up, the back of it pressed into the wall, and Maximilien’s mouthpiece advances towards his neck, the seam finding a sensor underneath his own chin and kisses it, sending another pleasant jolt down his circuits.

Fingers caress a sensor behind the bundle of cables, insistent, searching, and it feels like a tickle, deep and teasing, and Zenyatta vibrates, hiccups, warmth spreading through his processes, turning his mind into mush.

His hand snaps forwards, clasping Maximilien’s tie, tugging at it –he is not sure if he wants the wandering fingers to stop or if he wants them to continue, sensors flaring up, but the feeling is almost overwhelming, and he needs–

“I know where to touch,” Maximilien says, and Zenyatta has to agree –he knows what to do, intimately well, to make it so easy to forget how to think. “Allow me to continue.”

A beat, then another, and Zenyatta realises that Maximilien is waiting for him to agree. The fingers remain where they are, but are unmoving, the lack of stimulation almost upsetting.

He nods, once, then clears his synth. “You can–”

One hand wraps around his wrist, tugging it aside, the other dips into the circuitry on his side, and Zenyatta is almost embarrassed with how quickly he reacts to the touch, foreign yet familiar, of fingers digging into his delicate sensors to caress and stimulate them, omnic energy dancing across them until he’s trembling, tiny flickers of pleasure spreading from his side to his chest, and further.

“I did not think you would be this–” his words hiccup when Maximilien strokes a sensor from tip to end, fingers buzzing with vibrations “oh…”

“When there is something I want, I do not wait for others to do my bidding… I just take it.” Maximilien kisses him again, the omnic energy from his mouth plate melting into Zenyatta’s frame together with the one from his fingers. “Tell me, Zenyatta… do you want that?”

Zenyatta’s thighs part almost on their own accord, the ache under his modestly plate making him feel heady, and Maximilien chuckles. He rides on this –on his steely control– like he does with everything else, and Zenyatta, looking at him, feels his valve grow wet.

He truly is a sight to behold, intensity making him sharper.

“Yes,” he says, “if you prove yourself worth the task.”

Maximilien tugs on his wires and Zenyatta almost falls, the shock of pleasure finally breaking out of his synth in a low, deep moan.

He’s still wearing pants, but he feels Maximilien’s thigh push against him, insistent, rubbing into his modesty panel, and it gives away without second thought, his valve soft and plump and swollen already.

Maximilien stills, knee brushing higher, and makes a considering sound.

“You have human parts,” the teasing almost makes Zenyatta reconsider, the disdain Maximilien has for humans making his tone sound almost derisive, but the way his thigh continues to press and knead against his valve, even with his pants between them, the way his hand is trapped inside his back, playing his sensors and wires until Zenyatta’s body sings with pleasure, is hard to deny. “Would you not come, if I were to simply tease your wires, make you mindless with desire? Do you _need_ this, to come for me? How _deeply_ do you desire to be filled, when overloads are so much more rewarding?”

Zenyatta shakes when the thigh presses harder, then moves away, and he chases it with his hips, wanting the pressure back.

The hand on his wrist moves away and Zenyatta slips a little, holds onto the edge of the table at his side, his other hand holding onto Maximilien’s shoulder, and parts his thighs more, inviting.

“You promised to make this worth my while. If you can’t get what you want, it will be poor proof of your skills,” he answers, and Maximilien’s fingers in his circuits make him see the stars, white flashing past his vision as his circuits flare and minor processes die, pleasure washing through him.

The fingers are merciless, answering to Zenyatta’s provocation without words, they press, tug and pull, static and omnic energy activating sensors he’s long since forgotten could feel this way, and there is nowhere to go, between Maximilien and the wall, and Zenyatta arches his back and moans in tiny, breathless little gasps, until his synth is affected and cracks with white noise.

Zenyatta chases the pleasure that Maximilien is giving him, for there is nowhere else to go, rides on it, higher, desperate, yet the pleasure remains constant and teasing, shy of the edge he needs, and he shudders, fingers digging into Maximilien’s jacket.

Pleasure rocks into him with every wave of static, fingers rubbing against hidden sensors and cables, and Zenyatta knows he should –he should do something, yet he can’t, he holds onto Maximilien and takes what he’s given, legs shaking, valve leaking until his pants are drenched with his slick.

He feels Maximilien unbutton his pants, tugging them down without care, revealing to him the sight of Zenyatta’s valve, silicon and plush, soft and smooth, the curve of his prosthetic cock still trapped inside its latch, a glowing teal nub peeking right above the entrance of his valve, and a glimpse of translucent slick dripping from his swollen, twitchy folds.

“Isn’t it sad, to see a reminder that we cannot simply exist as omnics, without making concessions?” voice soft, Maximilien seems entranced, trailing his fingers down the edge of his valve, delicate and teasing, and Zenyatta exhales, almost breathless without needing air. “So needy to be used, touched and caressed and filled up.”

Zenyatta does not speak, for Maximilien is right –he is aching, deep inside his valve, where more sensors are primed for input yet receiving none, the truth that there might be nothing coming short of disappointing, if not for the fact that Zenyatta’s wires are receiving all the attention, and the pleasure is strong enough he would come, if Maximilien were to allow it.

He teases him instead, a thumb rubbing down the edge of his valve even as another finger prods at his sensors in the back, and Zenyatta shudders, gasps, yet finds no relief, Maximilien refusing him his end –it’s too soon, even as Zenyatta craves for it already.

Stuck in a moment of stasis, feeling the pressure of fingers against his wires, an anticipation that only grows when they twitch, tease and dip deeper.

Zenyatta wants so much _more_.

Instead, the fingers against his valve shift, a knuckle rubbing up and down, slowly, considering.

“If it… ah– if it brings pleasure,” he says, gasping, collecting his thoughts into a raspy answer, “is it not alright to explore things outside of our realm?”

Maximilien hums, and his hand splays against Zenyatta’s valve, watching him twitch and lean into it.

“True –pleasure is a decent price.”

Torturous pleasure, yet Zenyatta craves for more.

“So easy it would be,” Maximilien says, entranced, as he uses his fingers to caress Zenyatta’s folds, watching like an hawk as he trembles and shakes, his synth making soft, needy sounds. “To still deny you, watching you come undone underneath me until you beg for my touch, for my fingers to tug your wires until you’re gone, until you forget you even have these parts, until you shake through your pleasure as we connect, processors as one, input taking over your mind–”

Zenyatta’s mind is hazy already, the promise in Maximilien’s voice, the fact that he’s pressed into a wall, fingers caressing him so deeply, his circuits flaring in pleasure, make it hard to want to focus. Maximilien seems content with teasing, controlling, taking, and Zenyatta gives in, the tide undoing him inch by inch.

He wonders if Maximilien doesn’t know already how close he is, how he’s been riding on the edge since the start, how long it has been since he’s had a lover who knew how to work his body, how if Maximilien would only allow it, press a little harder into his circuits, just a little, he could–

A thumb circles a sensor in his lower back, omnic energy vibrating against it, and he moans, twitching, when another thumb caresses the underside of his glowing nub, parting his folds a fraction, enough for more of his slick to gush through, wetting Maximilien’s hand.

He feels Maximilien hum, amused, he feels fingers part his folds more as his other hand digs into his circuits, playing with them, and Zenyatta twitches and gasps as he leaks more slick from his valve, the ache inside him growing as he needs those fingers inside it, hard and fast, just as Maximilien’s other hand is wrecking his circuits.

Yet Maximilien coaxes moans from him, fingers sliding down his valve without pushing in, the tip barely past the edge of his folds before he’s retreating, and Zenyatta’s mind, hazy and clouded with pleasure, tries to chase the touch.

He feels on fire. His circuits, unused and untouched for so long, are not calibrated anymore for this kind of pleasure, for the torture of fingers teasing them, stimulating them, pushing into them so hard Zenyatta seizes, and his valve feels empty, the itch to be filled turned into a deep throb.

Yet he knows there will be no such mercy –Maximilien continues to tease him with both hands, red optics burning into him, like he never plans to stop.

Zenyatta does not want him to.

Maximilien pushes their faces together, omnic energy flaring between their mouth seams, and Zenyatta replies in kind, kissing him back, tugging his shoulder to get him closer, wanting to mess that perfect attire, the suit Maximilien is so fond of. The thought is almost foreign but Zenyatta shivers, thighs parted as far as they can go, and Maximilien pushes against him until there is not an inch of space between their bodies, Zenyatta caught between him and the wall, holding onto dear life to the edge of the table.

There are more words, but Zenyatta’s thoughts fracture and splinter and scatter with every push of omnic energy, and when Maximilien’s other hand vibrates against his valve, flat against it, never pushing inside, never doing more than a gentle, teasing caress, Zenyatta throws his head back and moans, moans again, and calls for him to do more, to let him come, to–

He barely feels the hand pressed against his valve retreating, not when the other is still making him see stars, but then something pushes into him, big and hard and warm, fills him inch by inch, the slide wet and the drag heavenly, catching every single one of his inner sensors, overloaded already with anticipation and omnic energy static, and fingers slip behind him into his circuits and wires, coaxing and pulling, and–

Zenyatta finds the edge, crests over it, climaxes hard in one long, steady pull, core stuttering under the pressure of his climax and the push-pull as Maximilien fucks into him slowly with his prosthetic cock, red chrome and carbon fiber, presses as deep into him as he can and holds there, milks Zenyatta’s climax with lazy, smug caresses of a thumb against his nub until Zenyatta’s legs give in under him and all of his weight falls on Maximilien’s body.

He is still coming as Maximilien’s hand retreats from his circuits, but he continues to push and pull inside him with his cock, dragging out sweet, breathless moans from his synth until he’s spent and shaking, so sensitive every sensor is alit with pleasure.

Zenyatta’s hand, sluggish, tugs at Maximilien’s tie as he tries to collect himself, but words are slow to come, and he feels lightheaded.

The pleasure hasn’t abated yet, and Maximilien’s cock inside him is humming, vibrating, omnic energy spreading from it _inside_ him, and–

“Has any human done this for you, Zenyatta?” Maximilien’s words are quiet and smug, but there is an edge of strain there, like he’s barely holding it together himself, aching. “Do they even last long enough to get you truly sated?”

Zenyatta finds his footing, slowly, Maximilien still inside him, and uses the table at his side as leverage –in a second, he flips them around, fans stuttering as he stares down at Maximilien, now pressed into the wall. The angle makes the prosthetic cock difficult to ignore as it presses deliciously inside him, but Zenyatta has climaxed once, processes culled and restarted, and it’s Maximilien now who needs a taste of his own medicine.

“For an omnic with such a dislike for humans,” he murmurs, grateful that his voice does not shake, frame still trembling from his orgasm, “you have no qualms taking for yourself things they own.” He squeezes around Maximilien’s cock, and watches him stiffen, optical receptors dull and glossy. “But you did say… the price _is_ fair.”

He grinds into Maximilien, slowly, takes his dick as deep as he can, clenches down on it every time he grinds closer, feels it slide out a bit every time he moves away, and knows that he’s got him –Maximilien’s hands slip to his sides to tug him closer, to keep the pace even, his optical receptors flutter close, tiny little gasps coming out from his synth.

He grabs at the wall, just like Zenyatta before, clothes ruffled and pants wet with Zenyatta’s climax, a peek of his chassis from underneath his partially unbuttoned shirt, and Zenyatta looks down at his cock as it slides inside him, black and red disappearing into his valve.

Such sheer, steely control, and Zenyatta is grateful he lasted so long, just to make sure Zenyatta was properly taken care of…

And now, he can make that control crumble, take Maximilien as deep as he can be and feel him come, drag his climax out and wreck him just as he’s wrecked him, and then coax him into a second, tumble into his bed and lead Maximilien into giving him more, and he murmurs this to the tempo of his hips grinding into Maximilien, his cock disappearing into him with wet, lewd sounds, and gets to see Maximilien’s optical receptors flutter as they blink open and try to focus on him.

“You will be the death of me,” he sounds raspy, almost weak, and Zenyatta throws his head back and grinds harder, mercilessly, chases Maximilien’s _petit mort_ and wonders how many times he will get him to come, before he remembers how to use those skilled hands of his.

He knows they’ve got enough time, before morning comes.

 


End file.
